


"all is well."

by paperthinn



Series: seeley's favorites [12]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Emotional Baggage, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24089494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperthinn/pseuds/paperthinn
Summary: Draco Malfoy first sees Harry Potter seven long years after the war.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: seeley's favorites [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715506
Comments: 11
Kudos: 106





	"all is well."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CAIOLOGY](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CAIOLOGY/gifts).



> this bitch is 7k+ words !!! it took me like 4 days to write fr normally my works are like 1k... this is a vibe tho. its like 6AM pls someone call 911 im
> 
> for atlas bc i love them
> 
> mind the notes at the bottom, please !

Draco Malfoy first sees Harry Potter seven long years after the war. It wasn't that he'd been avoiding facing Potter after the death of the Dark Lord, per say, they just had different paths after. He'd been living off of his father's earnings for a while now. Draco could live the rest of his life without work if he wanted to, while Harry was Head Auror. 

The sun was setting over Godric's Hollow on May 2nd when Draco wandered into the graveyard. He visited every year, just when the last rays of orange light cast themselves over the small village and the chill in the air made him wish he'd brought a coat. Draco never wore his normal cloaks on this day, deciding muggle clothes were better in an attempt to keep himself from having any sort of flashbacks.

He's walked past the familiar headstones countless times and yet he still does not know the names on them. Sometimes the dirt that covers them will be washed away by rain, or they'll be layered with untouched and glistening snow. Other times, they remain standing, never visited and forgotten. Draco looks around at the few trees that have grown from the ground; leaves grow from them now, but Draco has seen them barren. It's all the same to him. 

He's headed for a specific spot, near the back, a set of three graves that line the back gate. With two of them, he doesn't bother — they're more than twenty years old, and although they're worn down from their age, sometimes a few flowers will be laid on the ground in front of them. Lilies, more often than not, which is fitting to one of the names engraved into the once–polished headstone. Draco brings flowers for their graves every now and then too, deciding he might as well if he's going to stand where they're buried. Lily and James Potter lay familiar in the graveyard, but Draco is not here for them.

A few old leaves from last fall crunch under Draco's feet as he walks through the graveyard. He's nearing the back when he sees a figure standing where he himself normally stands, peering down at the gravemarkers. Draco's never run into anyone when he visits. Not many people pass by here. He knew it was a matter of time — although Draco comes just when the people that reside in Godric's Hollow have returned indoors, there are a select few people who have not forgotten those who lay in the old graveyard. Draco wonders if he should leave, if he should allow the figure to grieve in peace. He has a feeling he might know who it is.

It's dark now, stars scattered through the night sky as the sun finally sinks below the horizon. Draco visits every year. He decides he would never forgive himself if he didn't visit as he always does, walks forward and stands beside whomever might be missing those who lay buried six feet under. Draco peers down, eyes tracing the familiar letters as he's done for seven years now. There are times he's visited, just when he feels lonely.

_Severus Snape_

_01.09.1960 — 05.02.1998_

The man is laid next to Lily Potter. The flowers that were put down for her have decayed; Draco watches as the person next to him vanishes them away and places down new ones.

"The first time I saw flowers here, I was confused. I hadn't put them down, of course, which was what startled me. I hadn't even thought to visit until he was buried here next to her." Draco stares at Snape's grave, shifting on his feet. There are times he hates standing here, knowing his old Professor is buried under his very soles. "Hello, Draco." The man next to Draco turns to look at him. Draco shoves his hands in his pockets, looks back at the man and sees familiar green eyes.

"Hi, Harry." The man looks a lot different now, but Draco supposes everyone does. Potter doesn't have his glasses anymore, and that allows him to look older. He hasn't shaved — there's stubble lining his jaw. The man is muscular now, but still as thin as he's always been. Harry's taller, older; he's a proper man now. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. With the flowers, I mean. I figured Snape wouldn't want anyone to bother, but I knew he'd be laid next to your mom." Draco feels as though his words echo for blocks, spoken in the silence of the graveyard. Harry smiles a gentle smile, nods at him.

"You're probably right about Snape. He'd probably say something like, 'What idiot child would waste their stupid muggle money on something as imbecilic as _flowers,'_ and then turn and walk away. Dramatics and all that." Harry says, amused. Draco laughs, something he feels as though he hasn't done for a long time. 

"He wouldn't say 'stupid,' he'd say useless, or a bigger word that nobody would understand." Harry smiles, and it reaches his eyes. They stand like that for a moment before they both start laughing, hysterical in the darkness of Godric's Hollow standing at the grave of James and Lily Potter and Severus Snape. When it fades off, echoing into the night sky, Draco turns back to look at the gravestones.

"That was Snape," Harry says now, solemn and grieving. Draco has not heard someone grieve over _Severus Snape_ in seven years. McGonagall and all the other professors grieved, spilling their tears over their lost colleague, but no student took the time. The Slytherins felt the loss, but not like Draco did — he didn't know the man personally, but it felt like Snape was the only former Death Eater who truly wanted to leave. Draco despised the Dark Lord. He knows Snape did too. "I think the saddest part of it all is that even after living such a painful life, he didn't get to die peacefully. The look on his face when he died there, in my arms, still haunts me. He told me to look at him, and I don't regret appeasing a dying man's wishes, but I _do_ regret watching him. I regret seeing him pass." Harry sounds on the verge of tears, and Draco feels that way too, thinking about the way Snape had looked when his body was brought to the great hall with all the others who had fallen.

Blood. There was so much blood. For a short moment back on that day in 1998, Draco thought it was just his vision; maybe he was literally seeing red. That was when he realized who it was, wrapped in familiar black cloaks. His hair was out of his face, Draco remembers, gravity tugging it down to lay flat at his shoulders. At first, Draco was shocked. How could _this man_ die? Then, it was nausea. Draco has never felt more sick than he did when he saw death staining Severus Snape's face. 

Silence falls over them, and they stand there for a long, long time. Harry sniffles a few times, and Draco doesn't comment on it. He hopes the sounds of his own tears aren't heard. They stand there for a long time, and then Harry brings an arm up to wipe at his face and turns to Draco. Draco looks at him, knows there are tears there, sees Harry's red-rimmed eyes. There's a light blush there from the crying he's done, and although he smiles, the man still looks sad and tired.

"Do you want to go for a drink? I'm good friends with Rosmerta at the Three Broomsticks. She'll let us in. At this time of night, it's sure to be empty." Draco considers his offer, knows if he doesn't take it he'll just end up moping and drinking away his sorrows at the Manor. He doesn't normally end up sleeping this night every year, his dreams morphing into nightmares of Harry Potter being brutally killed by Lord Voldemort. The thought of what his life would be had the Dark Lord been victorious haunts him.

"I'd love a drink. It's a little cold out here anyway," Draco says, smiles. Harry smiles back, waves his hand as if motioning for Draco to walk ahead of him. Draco does, steps forward and flinches when a stick snaps under his feet. The things that trigger him are so simple; shrill laughter, blood, loud noises, yelling. Harry lays a gentle hand on Draco's back, rubs small circles, removes it and holds an arm out.

Draco links their arms together, leaning into the other man for warmth, thankful Harry didn't try to grab at his hand. Even the touch of cold, clammy hands sends Draco spiraling — the Dark Lord's hands were never warm, and they were unforgiving. Harry leads them just outside the graveyard, and they stand together in the empty, dark street. Draco hears the gate close behind them.

"Brace yourself." Harry says softly, allows Draco to stand up straight in preparation, and then they're apparated in front of the Three Broomsticks with a loud, sickening _crack._ The apparation is so smooth that Draco barely feels it, doesn't feel the nausea he normally feels when they land on their feet in the nearly empty streets of Hogsmeade. A few wizards are strewn about, some intoxicated, others heading home. They unlink their arms and Harry knocks on the locked door of the Three Broomsticks, a smile tugging at his lips when it opens to reveal Madam Rosmerta.

She looks over them for a moment, then steps aside, allowing both men into the Inn with a click of her tongue. "Harry," Rosmerta greets, smiling at the both of them. She smiles at Draco in a way that tells him she's forgiven him for using the _Imperius_ on her back in his sixth year, and Draco smiles back. It feels nice to be forgiven; it's freeing.

"Rosmerta. Sorry for coming in so late." Harry says. Rosmerta waves her hand at him and moves to wipe down a table for them. Draco sits down, sighing at the warmth of the familiar structure. He doesn't remember it ever being any less than comforting, or any less than homey. It was always nice to wander in the Three Broomsticks during the winter Hogsmede visits.

"Nonsense. You're always welcome here. It feels like just yesterday you two were in here as students at Hogwarts; you were so small then." A blush blooms over Harry's face and he smiles an embarrassed smile, turning to Draco. Draco laughs, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, yeah. Two Butterbeers please, Rosmerta. We'll be out of your hair soon enough. It is getting late anyways." Draco doesn't know what time it is, but he has an idea it's well past ten. That is about what time the Three Broomsticks closes, after all. Draco wonders just how much time they spent at the graveyard, feels a bit tired now that he's warm. He did cry for quite a bit, too, he reminds himself — that always takes it out of him. He used to cry a lot back when he attended Hogwarts, burdened by his forced status as a Death Eater.

Rosmerta is quick; she always has been. It's one moment of shuffling around to get comfortable in his chair, and then she comes swinging around and places two Butterbeers on the table in front of them. Harry smiles fondly at her when she mutters a, "On the house," and then she leaves them alone. Draco wonders if Harry comes by every year after the war had ended. It seems likely — Rosmerta was not alarmed to see him (or Draco, for that matter) tonight.

"Have you been up to Hogwarts yet? McGonagall keeps sending me owls in hopes of seeing me. Check-ups, I guess." Draco sips at his drink, sinking into his chair as the warmth of it trickles through his body slowly. Harry hums, a gentle sound, his fingers tapping at the table.

"Yeah. Minerva is pretty persistent. I guess I just haven't been up to it. I love Hogwarts, but it can be overwhelming revisiting certain places." Harry says, shrugs, and then sips at his Butterbeer. Draco nods in understanding. His days in the Malfoy Manor are terrible. He considered selling it, moving into a new place — one that hasn't been tainted by death — but it's been in the family for forever, and Draco can't bring himself to do so. 

Draco voices this, "I wanted to sell the Manor. So much bad stuff happened there, you know. Much more than you saw. When I thought about how disgusted Father would be, how long it's been the _Malfoy_ Manor, I backed out." Draco traces the rim of his glass with his finger, deciding to look down at his drink rather than face Harry. Gentle fingers brush over his knuckles and Draco forces himself to look up, meeting the other man's gaze. A warm hand wraps in his.

"You're your own person, you know. If you don't want to sell it, don't. Get a new place, move away, let the Manor get old and dusty. Grimmauld Place was so empty after—" Draco swears he sees Harry's eyes glisten with tears, and then they're gone. He knows of Sirius Black's death, of course he does. Bellatrix had bragged about killing him until the day Molly Weasley killed her. "I still own it. I just don't live in it." Harry smiles, and it's sweet, his hand warm around Draco's. The man's thumb presses gently into his skin. Draco hasn't held someone's hand in a long, long time.

"I don't know. Moving is a lot of work, I— there are still parts of the house I've refused to revisit. Maybe in a few years? I guess I stay there because there's history. My mother lived there. I think it'd be wrong to move somewhere new where I'd be alone." Draco doesn't know if he explained that right, and he hopes he did. Living alone in a new house where he'll remain alone, being the only one in his bloodline to stay in such a new place, it would feel wrong. He doesn't have any good friends. They all died in the war.

"I get that. You're welcome to stay with me, if you like. I live alone too." Draco smiles then, an involuntary thing, so simple. Harry beams when he sees it, his eyes glowing with a mixture of fondness and happiness. Draco allows his fingers to brush Harry's wrist, grabs the man's hand properly now. "I know how bad it can get. I don't want you going back to that place tonight. Stay with me, at my place." Harry says, calm and reassuring, as if he knows of Draco's night terrors. May 2nd is both the best and the worst date of the year, and Harry knows it.

"Okay." That's all Draco can say. Harry nods, squeezes his hand, takes a drink from his butterbeer. Draco hopes Harry's home is warmer than his own — the Manor is so big that no amount of heat can keep it hot enough. Sometimes Draco wonders if it's the remaining effect of the Dark Lord staying within those halls. Maybe his aura made the Manor freeze over, and now the walls are cold-blooded too.

"Good." Harry stands then, cradles Draco's hand in his own, and Draco stands too. It's late, nearing eleven (Draco isn't sure, really, but he's hoping it's not past midnight). Rosmerta is nowhere to be seen; they walk out the door without a goodbye. It's chillier than it was earlier, and the wizards and witches that were strewn about have gone home. Silence is all that washes over Hogsmeade now. The roads are familiar as Harry and Draco walk together, practically memorized from their time spent in the small town back when they were at Hogwarts.

It's quiet, and their arms brush, then Harry holds his arm out just as he did in the graveyard. Draco links their arms, leaning into the warmth of the other man, succumbing to the urge to lay his head on Harry's firm shoulder. Harry hums, and it seems to echo.

Draco suddenly wonders what happened to Ginerva Weasley — Potter and her had been dating before the war, hadn't they? As they walk down a deserted street in Hogsmeade, Draco ponders Harry's seemingly departed girlfriend. 

Harry seems to know what Draco's thinking, pulling Draco closer so they're flush, side-by-side in the cold that remains of the winter — "Ginny and I broke it off shortly after everything was over. Differences, and all that. I still love her. She's my sister. I guess somewhere along the line, I learned the difference between love and infatuation." Draco turns his face into Harry's shoulder, looking down at the ground beneath them, moving steadily as they walk.

"Have you dated anyone else?" Draco can't help himself, curious now that he knows Harry and the Weasley girl haven't been together for a long time.

"Not dated, no. Not many people see past me being the one who killed 'You-Know-Who.' I've hooked up with a few muggles." Harry says, and Draco suddenly comes to the realization that the green-eyed figure he's pressed against is a _man,_ who has most definitely had sex. It's not that he hadn't known that before — there's no way _Harry Potter_ is a virgin, with his strong jaw and, admittedly, stunning face. Not only that, of course, but Draco can feel the way the man's muscles move as they walk, and _yeah,_ suddenly he's very aware that it's Harry James Potter he's talking to.

"I haven't— not in a long time. Flashbacks and all that. I've tried, but panic attacks are a bitch." Draco laughs, now uncomfortable thinking about all the failed attempts at sex. He's wanted to, _really_ wanted to, but after his years as a Death Eater, he can barely make it past the 'getting undressed' part of it all. Voldemort's followers were cruel, sick people; men and women who had not hesitated to prey on a child. Harry stops, turns his head to Draco as if shocked by the insinuation.

"Draco," He breathes, stepping to stand in front of him, "Did they— oh, Merlin." Draco has never gotten pity in regards to what happened to him. Nobody has ever shown him any, not really. Snape was always the one to patch him up, and Draco had not known it was the man's _choice_ to check up on him until everything was revealed after the war. Draco remembers the look in Snape's eyes — solemn, worried, _broken —_ every time he had come down to the dungeons after he was grabbed at, abused by mentally ill men. There was one time the Dark Lord himself had taken a turn, and the flashbacks of that send him into the bathroom every time to get sick.

Draco feels like he might cry. He's tried hard to forget it, but the memories of what they had done to him always come back to bite him in the ass. "It's alright. I had tried to obey, but it wasn't good enough. The Dark Lord permitted it." There's a lot of denial in there, he knows, and Harry picks up on it too. He brings his hands up, gently cradles Draco's cheeks, wipes at tears Draco didn't know were there.

"Draco, darling," Harry says; Draco hasn't had someone call him any term of endearment since his mother, "You didn't deserve it. No matter what Voldemort permitted, they had no right to lay a hand on you." Draco nods, shivers when a breeze blows past them. "It's cold. Come, I'll apparate us." Harry says, moves away from the blonde. Draco follows him, takes the arm Harry holds out, and the _crack_ signals they've transported elsewhere. There is still no nausea — a completely smooth transition.

They're standing in a field, and they're isolated. Draco has a quick moment of panic, looking around, knowing they are no longer in a place where he could get away quickly. If he were to yell here, he would not be heard. Harry shushes him, "It's here. It's under _Fidelius._ " Draco nods in understanding, cursing himself for thinking the man next to him would hurt him. He closes his eyes for a moment, standing up straight, and when he opens them again it _is_ there — a small cottage-looking home, surrounded by trees. It's much smaller than the Manor, most likely built for a maximum of two people.

Harry starts walking, unlocks the door, and Draco steps inside. The warmth of it makes him sigh, glancing around — he doesn't know how long Harry's lived here, but he's obviously resided in the small house long enough for it to be cluttered. It's not in a bad way, though, Draco decides. There's touches of red and gold strewn about, a green blanket tossed over the backside of the couch as if Harry didn't know where to put it. It's small, but it looks like a proper home; it's essentially the complete opposite of the Malfoy Manor, which is expensive but almost empty.

"I wouldn't have expected you to decorate with green." Draco says, sees a few more decorations of that color. Harry shrugs, slides his shoes off and walks further in. He waves his hand at the fireplace casually, which bursts with fire in an instant. The display of magic is impressive. 

"It's not a bad color. I was almost Slytherin, you know. The Sorting Hat told me I could've done great things had I been sorted there, but obviously I ended up in Gryffindor." Harry walks into what's most definitely a small kitchen, reaches up and pulls down two mugs casually. Draco hadn't known Harry had leaned toward Slytherin — he'd seemed like such a dull-headed Gryffindor that it wasn't even in the realm of possibilities. Draco thinks maybe he could see it; Harry would look nice in Slytherin robes, no doubt, the emerald green of them would've done his eyes good. 

"Really? You've never seemed like the type." Harry hums, laughs a small laugh that tells Draco he's heard that before. Draco slides his own shoes off and stands in the doorway to the kitchen, looking over the small space.

"Mm. You'd be surprised. You should've seen the stunt I pulled with Slughorn back in sixth year. I don't think I'll manipulate someone like that ever again." Harry laughs. Draco raises an eyebrow, interested in the story there. Maybe if Harry had been a Slytherin, they could've gotten along, been friends. Draco remembers introducing himself before they were sorted, wishes he'd been nicer. His parents had raised him to be snobby, practically cruel.

"I doubt it was _that_ good. Slughorn was always easily tricked. You were part of the 'Slug Club' too, and he _was_ a sucker for anything 'Harry Potter.'" Draco snorts. Harry sets water to boil in his kettle, on the path to make tea, then turns around to face the blonde. He has a glint in his eye, one Draco recognizes, the one that hints that he's (or any Slytherin, for that matter) decided he's going to do something mischievous. Harry takes a few steps forward, now close enough to Draco that the blonde can smell his breath. It's all so sudden, Harry's quick to smirk, his lips curling up on one side in an attractive way.

"And you're sure that _you_ aren't a sucker," Harry leans forward and Draco can't help it, his eyes go half-lidded with want, "For _Harry Potter?"_ Draco's very sure in this moment that he would be anything Harry wanted him to be. The way Harry's voice drops, low and fucking _orgasmic_ in Draco's ears — yeah, Draco's getting hard. They're so close now, and Draco doesn't want to embarrass himself, stays still, has this desperate hope that the man in front of him will kiss him.

There's a high-pitched whistle from the stove, and then Harry's gone, and Draco whispers a, _"Fuck._ Tease." He adjusts himself in his pants, a little more than half–hard, straightens himself. Harry doesn't do anything that suggests he hears Draco's frustration, dropping teabags into mugs of now steaming hot water. Harry takes the cups into his hand, spins around and motions for Draco to sit.

It's almost as though the previous events hadn't happened when Harry smiles, "I hope you like Chamomile. I've been drinking it a lot recently." Draco nods, not entirely processing the situation, attempting to shake out of it and taking the mug Harry's offered to him. He sits down on the couch, curls his legs up on instinct, takes a sip and decides he does like Chamomile. The fire crackles in the background, and as Harry sits down next to Draco, the blonde ponders how domestic this scene feels. 

They've been talking like old friends, as if they have seen each other countless times after Hogwarts. Draco hadn't realized he missed talking to people casually until he found a comfortable spot on Harry's couch, glancing over to the man. 

"What else have you been doing? In the last seven years, I mean." Draco asks, tries to think of an excuse for why he drags his eyes over Harry's jaw. He's always been bad when it comes to flirting, and so Draco doesn't try — anxiety makes it a bit hard. He's always been afraid of rejection, which played a big role in why he fought so hard for the Dark Lord's approval. So many fears, and Voldemort seemed to know all of them, manipulating Draco in such a way that he was forced to comply with whatever he wanted.

"Obviously, I took the job as Head Auror. Minerva's been bugging me; she wants me to take the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. That woman," Harry laughs, shakes his head in a fond way, "She's always been like a grandmother to me, almost. I guess she is that way to all of us. She's persistent, I'll give her that." Draco has no doubt she is, has faced some of her stubbornness himself. He realizes they've picked up on their earlier conversation about McGonagall and her letters, resists grinning at how easy it is to move between topics.

"Maybe you should take it," Draco suggests, fingers tightening around his mug, "You'd probably be the best Defense teacher Hogwarts has seen." Harry looks at him then, a glow in his eyes that speaks volumes — Harry's thought about it before, and it's obvious.

"You think? I mean, I have a good job, I make enough, but it's repetitive. I think it's set me back more than it's pushed me forwards, you know." Harry says, and Draco _does_ know. Chasing dark wizards — some of them which have tried to equate themselves to Voldemort, no doubt — has probably done a lot of bad for Harry. Just as much as it's done good for the Wizarding World. Draco sets his mug down, deciding he's had enough to drink for the night. Butterbeer and tea is probably not the best combination for his stomach. Harry sets his down, too.

"Yeah. Maybe you could make some new memories at the castle. Plus, I bet students would be absolutely enamored with _Professor Potter."_ Draco says. Harry's eyes go a bit dark at the name, clouded with something Draco has a feeling he wants to see a bit more often. 

_"Professor,_ hm? I do think that has a ring to it." Draco's hard. He was before, when Harry had decided to come into his personal space, but he's even harder now listening to the dangerous edge that's underlying in Potter's tone. He didn't realize Harry was leaning closer until the man was an inch or two away from his face. Draco's eyes go half-lidded again, praying there are no distractions this time. He's never wanted to kiss someone so bad in his life.

 _"Yeah,"_ Draco whispers, grasps for his own sanity, tries to remain collected before he makes a fool out of himself. Harry chuckles, a low sound, then leans forward and presses their lips together. Draco moans. Harry presses closer, grabs Draco's jaw gently and presses his tongue through his lips, licks behind the blonde's teeth. Whatever Draco imagined kissing Harry Potter would be like, _this_ was not it. He's careful, doesn't grab too hard, doesn't force it, allows Draco an out. Not that _Harry_ would do any of those things — Draco just has so many bad experiences with being kissed.

Draco's rock hard when it ends, and Harry pulls away, the brunette leaning down to press a hot, _hot_ kiss to the man's throat. Draco quivers, says a sarcastic, _"Fuck me,"_ then stutters when he realizes the double meaning of those words. Harry laughs.

"Not tonight, darling," Draco's _screwed._ Completely and utterly gone for this man, wherever the fuck he came from. Heaven, maybe? "I could blow you." _Yeah,_ Draco definitely wants that, eyes Harry's lips. He has the same feeling he had earlier — he'd do absolutely anything Harry James Potter wants him to do.

"Yes, please," Draco groans. Harry resumes with his attack on the blonde's throat, sucks on a patch of skin and then laps at it with his tongue. It's warm, wet, and Draco tilts his head back so Harry can reach better. His throat has always been sensitive to touch, and the press of hot lips against his skin has him melting — he has a feeling he might do some things tonight he won't be proud of later.

Draco's sure he's going to be pleasantly bruised the next morning, marked up by Harry, who slides gentle fingers under his plain long-sleeved t-shirt. The thought of having evidence of the encounter is enough to make his prick jolt in his pants. "Can I take this off?" Harry flattens his palm against Draco's stomach, keeps him grounded enough so the blonde can nod, feeling a bit too hot in his layers.

The black shirt is tugged over Draco's head, then thrown somewhere among Harry's stuff. Draco has his fair share of scars — Harry looks down at his torso, traces the _Sectumsempra_ scars with his fingers. He mutters a solemn, "I'm sorry," and presses his lips to them. A while ago, Draco would've rolled his eyes, said something sarcastic, but now he sighs at the feeling of a mouth on him.

"'s not your fault." Draco says, moans when Harry tongues at his nipple. He jolts at the feeling, brings a hand up to grip at Harry's hair. He'd forgotten about most of his erogenous zones, forgot how good it feels to have someone else touch his skin. Gradually, Harry falls to his knees, looking up at Draco from between his legs now that he's on the floor. The sight knocks the breath out of him and he pants, then hyperventilates.

This is where it always goes wrong — he'll be plenty ready to have someone pressed against him intimately, and then he's reminded of the past, sucked into the previous times full of disgusting hands and gross, cold skin.

Harry touches Draco's thigh, shushes him, grabs his hands. "Draco." Draco looks down at him, frightened, "You're safe. We can stop at any time. Just tell me." Harry kisses his palms, rubs at his fingers in a way that shows Draco they're both warm, that they're not in the Manor. 

"No, no, it's okay— it's," Draco's still hard, of course he is. Harry Potter's on his knees, ready to give him a blowjob. _Merlin,_ he's ruined the mood. Harry turns over Draco's left palm, shushes him when he goes to yank it away. Muggles tend to think it's a cool tattoo whenever they see a glimpse of it. Wizards and witches flinch in fear, rushing to get away from him as fast as possible. Both experiences have given him trauma in combination with the meaning. Draco feels sick at having the Dark Mark praised, feels sick when others are scared of him because of it.

Harry doesn't move, though, simply takes Draco's wrist into gentle hands and slides his thumb over it. It was branded, not tattooed, carved into his very soul with dark magic that taints everything it touches. "You don't have to be afraid. I won't hurt you. I'll never hurt you." Harry says, soft. Draco looks down at the black mark on his arm, sees how faded it is now that Voldemort's been dead for years.

"I— it hurt. It felt like my arm was on fire. Worse, really. I can barely look at it anymore. I feel like a bad person." Harry leans forward, presses a kiss to the skin, the _fucking_ _Dark Mark._ Draco thinks they might both be insane. He quivers at the press of lips, sensitive everywhere. He expects Harry to say something in return, mock him for reacting to the touches, but he just looks up at Draco and rests a hand on his bulge, allowing the man to pull his wrist back.

Draco manages to keep himself still, tilts his head back with a small moan when Harry grabs at him, presses his palm to the spot where the head of Draco's cock presses against his pants. Harry keeps looking up at him and a sound from down in his throat slips out at the sight of Draco's throat, spotted with bruises and slick with spit.

Harry finally, _finally_ tugs at Draco's zipper, mutters to himself in annoyance, and then waves his hand. Draco yelps when he's suddenly completely bare, eyes fluttering open even though he's unsure as to when he closed them. His cock hits his stomach with a small, wet sound, the head slick with precome.

 _"Fuck,_ Draco. Your cock," Harry takes it into his hand suddenly, a light grip that causes Draco's hips to jump impatiently; a whimper erupts from his throat. "You might have the prettiest one I've ever seen." It's _ridiculous._ He's on Harry Potter's couch, in his home, and the man himself just called Draco's penis _pretty._ Draco might be crazy. He's never had someone call any part of him pretty; he's heard handsome, sexy (a select few times), but _never_ pretty.

"Harry, please," Draco knows it's a plea, but he's bordering begging, cock straining in Harry's too-light touch. Harry's thumb drags over the length of the prick in his fingers, starting at the base — Draco hears a small groan from the brunette when a drop of precome spills over his fingers. 

Draco feels _tortured_ by the time Harry finally grips him right, strokes him once and then twice. Draco's never felt so desperate (nor aroused) in his entire life, about ready to cry for it. Harry's tongue dances over his lips and Draco watches it. Not many people have taken the time to blow him, and most that have do it until he gets hard — Draco craves the feeling of a mouth on him, knows Harry told him he'd get _his_ mouth.

"Patience is always nice to have, isn't it?" Harry teases, presses the pad of his thumb to the head of Draco's cock on the next slow stroke up. Draco watches his eyes trace over the motion, sees that he's dripping steadily. He's always gotten a bit wet — so much so that most times he doesn't need lube. Harry leans forward, tilts Draco's cock back and presses his lips to the base. Draco's head falls back onto the couch and he moans, urging himself to keep still.

There are many things he used to be embarrassed about after having sex; his body, how wet he gets, how sensitive he is, how responsive he is. Harry doesn't seem to have a problem with any of it, looking more aroused than ever upon watching Draco fight to keep his hips from thrusting. He leans forward on his knees and slides his tongue over the dripping head of Draco's cock, moaning at the taste of precome.

Draco thinks that maybe this entire situation is a fever dream. Harry takes him into his mouth, his lips wrapped around the width of his cock, and Draco groans. He places a steady hand in Harry's hair, just to brush back the brown mop of curls so he can look at the man properly. Harry looks up at him, mouth sinking down on Draco's cock, and Draco feels like he could come right then if he wanted to.

The heat of Harry's mouth is _heaven._ Harry takes him all the way down, lips wrapped around the very base of Draco's cock, and the blonde moans deep in his throat. The weight of Harry's arms, his hands pressed against Draco's legs, the warmth of his body where he's kneeled down on the floor spreads heat through every nerve in his body.

Harry's tongue dances along the bottom of his shaft, coaxing a few embarrassing noises from Draco; it's been a long time since he's had sex, let alone a blowjob. Harry's hand slides off Draco's knee and Draco can only guess what he does with it, the thought of Potter pressing his hand against himself making him moan desperately. He thrusts into Harry's mouth, and it's shallow — Harry moans around Draco's cock.

"Your mouth, _Merlin,_ we could've done this a whole lot sooner if we'd gotten along— _fuck_ ," Harry pulls up, gasps for air, presses an opened mouth kiss to the base of Draco's spit-slick prick. He laughs then, delirious, peering up at the blonde. Harry has a little spark in his green eyes and although he looks more disheveled than anything, he looks amused too.

"I could've sucked you off in the halls," Harry gasps, takes Draco's cock in hand again and strokes him, "I had the invisibility cloak. The Marauders Map too— we could've fucked anywhere, really," Draco doesn't know what a 'Marauder's Map' is, but he doesn't need to know, just needs the imagery, the thought of Harry Potter fucking him silly in the halls of Hogwarts. Harry Potter in his robes, on his knees. Draco feels like he's dying when he moans that time.

Harry takes him back into his mouth. Draco sees his arm moving, obviously jerking himself, and that thought sends his head tipping back as Potter pulls his head up and then slides all the way back down. Draco wonders for a second how they got here — he vaguely remembers Godric's Hollow graveyard, and then Hogsmeade, and then seeing Harry's house for the first time. It seems like so long ago now that Harry swallows around his cock, presses his tongue into the slit at the head of Draco's prick.

"After a Quidditch match." Draco supplies. The thought of Harry Potter sucking him down after a Quidditch match almost does him in; Harry used to be visibly keyed up and soaked in sweat by the end of those matches. Harry moans, a sound that says he agrees. 

Harry swallows around him, suddenly pulls off and resumes stroking him instead. _"Draco._ Shit." Harry gasps, looking like he's about to burst himself, and Draco allows a whine to slip past his lips. His name slipping from Potter's mouth is _hot,_ a bolt if arousal shooting through him. Harry flicks his tongue over the head of Draco's cock and he's done for, shooting streaks of come both into his mouth and over his face. Harry groans, arm moving quickly as he desperately jerks himself off.

There's one moment when Draco's recovering, feeling like his soul has been blown from his body through his cock, and then he leans forward for a desperate kiss. Harry moans loud, a desperate sound, and Draco yanks the brunette up into his lap. Harry doesn't protest, simply straddles the man and grasps desperately at his shoulder for balance.

Harry's still clothed, his prick pulled through his zipper, trapped in his hand where he's ceased his movements. Draco slides a hand up Harry's back, under his shirt. "Do your fucking _magic_ thing." Draco mutters, cracking a lazy smile at the desperate laugh he gets in return. Harry waves his hand, sighs at the feeling of being naked, skin-to-skin now with Draco.

"I don't think I've ever been so hard in my life— Draco, _fuck,_ I want to come," Harry _sounds_ desperate for it, leans down to kiss Draco, all teeth and tongue. Draco reaches for Harry's cock, finds it, starts stroking him in earnest. It's quick and messy but Draco doesn't mind, tastes himself on Harry's tongue when Harry fucking _sobs_ into his mouth. He cries in relief and then Draco feels it, come falling on his skin, wet and warm. 

Harry's kiss slows then, as he's savoring his orgasm, pressing his hips into Draco's hand as he rides it out. He moans, grateful, licks behind Draco's teeth like he had before — it makes the blonde shudder. He pulls back, lays his head on Draco's shoulder. They sit like that for a minute or two, in the heat of the long-forgotten fire, curled up together naked.

Harry leans back, pulls his hand up and wipes at Draco's come on his face before sliding his finger into his mouth. He grins when Draco grimaces, "What?" Harry laughs.

"That's my come. On your face. _I came on your face._ " Draco says, as if it's obvious, wipes the rest of the fluid off Harry's cheek with his thumb. He goes to wipe it anywhere he can but Harry grabs his wrist, flattens his tongue over the pad of Draco's thumb.

"I thought it was hot." Harry whispers, kisses Draco's palm. Draco curses — he would get hard again, doesn't have the energy, sated now after his best orgasm in a long, long time. 

"You're a devil."

Harry leans down, hisses gently into Draco's ear, _Parseltongue,_ and normally the sound of it would stress him out but it's _Harry._ "You love me," He mutters when his hisses subside, a translation. Draco can feel his smile, just as he can feel his body heat.

"So what if I do?" Draco touches Harry's back, pulls him closer. Harry hisses again, not sounding like words, just a small sound. 

"Mm. Then you do." Harry presses his face into Draco's throat, settling down, obviously content on Draco's lap. Draco rests his head against the brunette's, listening to the gentle crackle of the fireplace. It's surely May 3rd by now, they've made it through most of the night, and Draco wonders how long it's been since he's been so at peace. Just when he's about to be lulled into sleep, Harry mutters a, "Move in with me."

"Hm?" Draco asks, not sure if he heard that right; they've barely talked past tonight, and even that wasn't the standard 'hey, friend,' talk. He looks at their situation, realizes none of this night has felt uncomfortable. Harry had settled into his arms as if he'd been there for ages. 

"It's a bit lonely here. You could leave the Manor. Move in with me." Harry says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. Draco doesn't know what possesses him, but he just nods his head, smiles. It's stupid to say yes, Draco scolds himself, but he's been craving an escape for a long time. 

"Okay." Draco replies. He decides they'll talk it over tomorrow, glancing around the small house. It could be perfect for them, seemingly the perfect size for Draco to add his own knickknacks as he collects them. For a moment, he sees himself in the future, with Harry, happy and unbothered in Harry's little cottage far off wherever. It should be alarming how fast that fantasy grew. It's not.

Harry moves then, forces himself up off Draco's lap and tugs the man with him. Draco's unsure as to why they're moving, and then they're in Harry's bedroom, and they're tumbling into his bed. Sleep is catching up with both of them — Harry tugs Draco as close as possible, until they're practically on top of each other. It's comforting. Draco hasn't slept with someone beside him ever.

They sleep, and suddenly they find themselves back on May 2nd, a year later. As they look down at the familiar graves of Severus Snape, Lily Potter, and James Potter, hand in hand, Draco cries. He does every year. Harry presses closer, rests his head on the blonde's shoulder. They should've brought coats. 

There's a chill in the air.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> stalk me idc
> 
> twitter: hotchnersmind, boomerrjoseph  
> insta: paperthnn
> 
> stay safe !


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